


all it takes

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-26
Updated: 2007-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-15 23:30:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/166004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>written post HBP. Hermione dies at the Battle of Hogwarts and leaves behind Harry and Ron to deal with themselves... and each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Ginny looks happy to see him.

She's beautiful, her long red hair shines in the sun, her mouth curled up in a smile that makes her whole face light up. A moment later, she's latched on to his arm, grinning up at him. "How's my favourite bro?" she asks.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Harry grins back.

More importantly, the two of them, they're fine, better than fine, and he's surprised at that. Maybe that's the biggest irony of it all, that he can be at great terms with her while -

"Sit down," she motions at the chairs standing around the little table. "What do you want? Tea, coffee, ice cream?"

She's not a waitress here, she owns the bloody place, restaurant, rather, but whenever he comes downtown to sit spend a few quiet minutes sitting outside in the sun, she always knows and comes out to greet him, bring him whatever he wants so no one else gets any ideas.

"Coffee's good, for a start," he says. "Maybe I'll have something to eat later. We'll see how long I'm staying."

She's back in a minute with his coffee, and one for herself and sits down at his table.

"How's Dom?" Harry asks then, taking a sip. It's good, perfect blend of dark and sugar, and he's never figured out how she always knows what he'd like most, even when at times he doesn't know himself.

"He's good. Gotten better lately," she replies. "He's dealing, I guess. I think maybe he's starting to feel a little happier again."

Dominic is Ginny's partner in the business, occasional lover. They first laid eyes on each other during the war, and she loves to tell the story of how they met, how she got hit by a nasty spell and he patched her up, healing her wounds. She's only ever told Harry how he made her not scream in pain by telling her funny stories about his wife and baby daugher.

When Ginny'd asked around for him afterwards, to thank him, she did find out his name, and where to find him; she did also find out that in the last Death Eater attack, he'd lost both the daughter and the wife.

"It's so hard sometimes, you know?" she sighs, staring into her cup. "Competing with the dead - she's like a saint for him now, and I'm just..."

"You're wonderful, Gin," Harry says, touching her hand. "He lost her barely a year ago, it's going to take a little more time. And you know he loves you."

"Yeah." She doesn't sound convinced. "So how's Ron?" It's a fool-proof topic change, which she knows Harry won't fight. "He hasn't dropped in at home for weeks, not even sent an owl, and mum's really worried. I can probably persuade her to leave him alone for a while longer if he really needs the distance, but you know the woman, Harry. Make him write her at least so she'll know he didn't die on her?"

"I'll try to get him to floo over sometime, but he's buried himself in work, and he's not keen on interruptions." Harry gives her a wry look. "You would think he's trying to impress Hermione now; I think the appreciation would have been more if he'd worked that hard before, like, maybe while she was still alive..."

Ginny licks a drop of coffee off her lip, her gaze hard when she looks up. "You know exactly that there is something you can do about that. If you'd just get your damn head out of your ass, Potter -"

"Just leave it, all right? If Dom's not over Emily yet, how can Ron be ready to lay Hermione to rest? I can't burden him with my feelings on top of everything."

"Ron's not Dominic. Hermione was his girlfriend for maybe half a year, and even that was on and off. They weren't lovers for love's sake as much as out of desperation. They've always worked best as friends, and that was what they were; everyone saw it except them, trying to build something more of it." Ginny's voice grows sharper. "It's what people do when they're lonely, Harry. I'm the best example of it right now."

"Ginny..."

"Don't you start." She scowls. "I'm not even sure I am in love with him, and if he is in love with me, I'm not seeing it. But we're friends, great friends and maybe that's what I should be content with."

Harry smiles wryly. "Good advice. I'm taking it for my own case, if you don't mind..."

"You, on the other hand," Ginny continues, ignoring him, "are in love with Ron, have been even since before we had our disastrous little fling, since you first met him, I bet, and knowing my brother, he's only so hung up on Hermione still, thinking she was the love of his life, because he's too fucking scared to admit he could ever love anyone as much as he does you. The whole gay thing doesn't help matters either."

Harry shrugs. He knows she wants him and Ron to be happy. They all loved Hermione, Harry still holds her dear in his heart, but he let go, and Ginny has as well, hard as it was. Only Ron is still hanging on for dear life. Harry doesn't presume to make sense of it. Harry can't but think, however, that if Ron had been the one sacrificing himself to destroy Voldemort, he would be far worse off than just ignoring the whole world and working from dawn to dusk.

"Just talk to him, okay?" Ginny nudges him.

"Will do." It's a promise, but Harry doesn't specify the time. There's no hurry. He can wait as long as Ron needs. It's not his decision to make, and Ginny doesn't understand that, but Harry does.

"All right, I gotta go, I still have a stack of tax returns to go through, but you should stay for a while and enjoy your coffee. Get whatever you want to eat on the house. And don't worry about it. Don't even think about paying." She throws her red hair back in an half-insulted gesture and gives him a half-smile.

Harry remains seated for almost two more hours. These days, Ginny's café is one of the few places he can go to and stay unnoticed. It has the advantage of illusion charms over every table, that everyone sitting down has their privacy. So he eats a sandwich, drinks a tea after, basks in the sunlight some more, before he finally gets up and leaves for home. In his hand, he has a bag with two more sandwiches to take home. The sun is almost setting and Ron should be getting home in an hour or two.

 

III

 

Ron's pale, paler even than usual, his freckles standing out against his skin like spots of reddish paint. His cheekbones are sharp, and he looks like he hasn't eaten in weeks, even though Harry makes sure he gets at least breakfast and dinner every day.

He stumbles out of the fireplace like usual, and Harry smiles at the memory of his first experience with the floo network. He still doesn't like the floo way to travel, prefers to apparate as often as he can, but mostly, these days, he walks to his destinations, or flies with his broom. He's quite comfortable, and it's not like he has a lot to do.

"How was work?" he asks quietly. He's put the sandwiches on a plate by Ron's chair with a glass of orange juice. Ron wouldn't eat otherwise, especially not if he thought Harry had gone out of his way to prepare something for him.

"Oh, you know," Ron shrugs. His cloak is shabby, has lost its shine, it's still the one Hermione bought for his birthday almost two years ago. Ron yelled at Harry for half an hour when Harry tried to gently breach the topic of throwing it away a few months back. He hasn't tried again.

"Boring?"

Ron shakes his head. "Exhausting. Look, mate, I'm gonna go to bed, yes?"

"Dinner?" Harry says, and he stares Ron down until Ron gives in. One good thing is that Ron was never able to really say no to Harry when Harry wanted him to do something.

"Oh, fine," Ron says, takes off the cloak and hangs it into the hallway on the hook near the exit door, before he comes back, shoes off as well, and sits down on his seat. He stares at the food as if it's going to wake up and bite him if he touches it, but at Harry's prod, he takes the sandwich and starts chewing.

"I was over at Ginny's again," Harry says. It's... ironic. These days, it's him making small talk to Ron's attentive (or sometimes distracted) silence. He misses Ron's easy chatter, the way they could bond over Trelawney's incompetence or their astronomy charts. Ron doesn't talk much anymore at all. "She's doing great. You know, she's grown into quite the amazing young woman, she does amazing work with the place, the café. You haven't seen her in over three months, you should visit her sometime, she misses you a lot."

"Stop it." Ron has put the sandwich down and looks at Harry blankly. His voice was hard there for a minute, almost icy, but then he subsides, adds almost as if in afterthought... "You know I don't get much time off, Harry."

"Because you don't take it off, Ron," Harry says, sharper now. "It's not like they're forcing you to stay twelve hours a day, seven days a week. It's not like the Ministry would shatter into tiny little pieces without you, you know."

"At least, I do some good these days," Ron mumbles, and that's that. His eyes unfocus, and he's remembering again, and Harry wants to bite into the tabletop in frustration. Everything, every damn word still sets him off into a guilty fit of oblivion. Harry would have thought if anyone would be the type to give in to the insane guilt complex about Hermione's death, it would be him, since he's pretty much the reason for all the shit that happened anyway. But Ron takes it to extremes, really.

"You are not to blame for Hermione's decision to sacrifice herself," he half-yells, because it's the same every time they exchange more than a sentence.

But Ron doesn't even react. He just pushes the plate away, takes up the glass, drinks a sip. "That's pretty good," he comments in wonder. "Tastes fresh. You didn't go and make orange juice yourself, did you?"

"Actually, I did."

"Oh."

Then Ron gets up, gives Harry a little smile and turns around to vanish into his room.

 

III

 

The apartment is not really big, just three rooms, two of them bedrooms, one living room, a kitchen and a bathroom. They're just fine with that, Harry because he's used to way less, and Ron because having space of his own is a foreign concept anyway, and the freedom of being rid of his mother and his siblings gives him more than enough room to breathe even when the flat isn't huge like a castle.

They would have the money, Harry supposes. Ron, working for the Ministry - legislation and jurisdiction, of all places, making sure the laws are actually just these days and that they are enforced properly. It's what he always pictured Hermione doing. And Harry himself, he isn't exactly poor, the money his parents left him was more than enough to last ten years at least, and he does earn money by writing his little articles for the Daily Prophet, reinstated after Voldemort fell. The editor was delighted to get the famous Harry Potter on board, even if Harry didn't have any experience in the field.

Strangely, he's discovered that he rather likes writing - not columns, those are for people like the Patil twins - but the real stuff, the stuff that actually happens on the streets daily. He was, of course, allowed to write about everything he liked, so he chose not to specify and writes about whatever crosses his mind at the time.

He has a strange feeling Ginny's freebies are a way of repaying him for mentioning her café a couple of times, but he's never asked, and she has never offered the explanation. It's not like it matters anyway.

The important thing is that the people living in the building are discreet. Nobody makes a racket about Harry Potter and Ron Weasley living here, and he likes it that way just fine. The press has been leaving him in peace since he decided to write for the Daily Prophet - 'Through The Eyes of A Hero' (not what he would have called the continuation of articles he writes, but he didn't have any choice on that matter) seems to be enough to get people to back off about wanting to know about his private affairs.

The sounds in the building slowly die down as the hour progresses. He was already home late, and now, it's long past eleven pm and the clock ticks merrily on. Someone turns on the shower a few floors down, he always hears the water run through the pipes, and the music that's been playing for hours now - classical music, Hermione would have known the name of the composer or the year of the piece - stops abruptly.

It's time, he knows. He gets up from his bed, puts down the book he wasn't really reading, just skimming, 'The Name of the Rose'. He watched the movie not long ago and liked it okay, but he thought the book might be better. He was right.

The lights are out in the hallway through which he gently steps barefooted, without making a sound. He knows which floorboards creak. He ghosts towards Ron's room, pushes down the handle to open his door. He doesn't need to be quiet, but there's always a chance Ron's asleep already - minimal, but Harry always kind of holds the hope that maybe this time...

But again, like always, he finds Ron lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. If Harry had to guess, he would say Ron's been laying like that for two hours he's been in his room, just thinking nasty, vile, self-destructive thoughts... but he doesn't know, and he's never asked.

He's already changed, his pyjamas are soft and fluffy in red and gold, a present from Hagrid for Christmas last year. He likes wearing them because feeling the material against his skin makes Ron feel safe. He knows it, because he knows everything about Ron, the way he breathes when he's scared, the way all his muscles just kind of... become fluid when he relaxes. The way his lips feel against the skin of Harry's neck, sometimes, when they wake up in the morning, still entangled.

He slips beneath the covers, quietly, without a word, and it doesn't take Ron a second to curl into him, breathing in loudly. Harry puts his arms around him, and Ron hugs him back, and doesn't say anything, just kind of sighs, like relief, like someone's taken some weight off him, and he just... closes his eyes, lashes brushing against Harry's chin.

They lay there for a few minutes, ten, maybe fifteen, then Ron's breathing hitches, evens out, and he's asleep. Harry follows shortly after.

 

III

 

When he wakes up, it's just past seven. Ron's legs have tangled with his own and they're pressed closer together than two books standing side by side on a packed shelf. Harry feels himself blush, grow hard at the feeling of another body so close, especially Ron's, with Ron's scent in his nose and Ron's hair against his cheek.

He slithers out of bed without waking Ron, looking not to embarrass either of them by overstaying. He knows this thing they do, it's nothing, it's comfort, it's sharing of warmth, not because they're cold but because they're lonely... and imposing some secret meaning on it would just screw Ron up even more.

He showers, changes and starts making breakfast, like every morning. Ron will wake up in about half an hour, has to leave to be at work at eight o'clock sharp. He'll skip breakfast if Harry doesn't have it ready.

Sometimes, he wonders why he bothers. Sometimes, he doesn't want to get up, stay curled up in bed with Ron, let things unravel... it's not like Ron doesn't know that they're sharing a bed, since he's always waiting on Harry to come. But... he doesn't... they don't really... and Harry isn't Ron's housekeeper. But if he wasn't taking care of Ron, Ron would starve to death and suicide is not a solution. That much he knows. They didn't live through all this shit just to die when it's about to get better.

He's right on time with the eggs and the toast. Ron comes out of the bedroom, gives Harry a sleepy smile - it's bright, happy, one of those Harry misses so much - before he vanishes into the bath to shower. He'll wake up under the cold water spray and forget the warm smile he just gave Harry, Harry knows.

Sometimes, he wonders whether it would stay on Ron's face longer if he were to wake up to Harry laying next to him, if it was possible that lingering in the post-sleep haze would prolong that little bit of happiness just enough so that he could start feeling again.

But it's just wondering, and Harry knows that it'll take another long while until he's ready to give that a try. Until then, he'll try to live with what they have, even if it's not much. It's more than Hermione has, in any case.


	2. Chapter 2

It's past eleven when he hears someone fall through the Floo. Harry squints against the darkness of his room, feels like someone socked him in the face with a sledgehammer. His eyes are swollen, his mouth dry, tastes like something crawled inside and died a messy death. He tries to get up, but only manages after the second try.

There is movement in the kitchen now. Someone turns on the tap water, glasses click. Harry runs his fingers through his hair, and the mirror on the wall just gives a helpless chuckle. It's not like it looks any different than usually. He catches a look at his face and wishes that he hadn't. He looks exactly as he feels, and it won't take a genius to figure out what he was up to the night before.

Not that Harry cares. He doesn't even change out of his sleeping clothes, just goes to the door in his boxer shorts. He's a little annoyed, but not as angry anymore as he was last night. Not half as worried. And he doesn't think he's quite as drunk anymore.

"Wow." Ron is half lost in thoughts when Harry enters the kitchen, but he does catch sight of him pretty quickly. A surprised, almost astonished look settles on his face. "You look like shit, mate."

Harry grunts. "Thanks."

"No, seriously. Are you sick? Do you want me to call someone at St. Mungos?" Ron steps closer, puts a hand on Harry's cheek to tilt his head up, to look him in the eyes. His hand is warm on Harry's skin, his fingers a little rough but strong.

"I'm fine," he says gruffly, pushes Ron away. "Where were you all of last night?" He tries not to sound accusing, steels his voice as to not to sound jealous. He doesn't... they aren't like that.

"Oh." Ron looks confused. "I didn't... did you worry? I didn't even call, did I? I hope you didn't stay up." He takes a deep breath, as if to apologize, but Harry can practically see realization hit home as Ron straightenes at the smell. "Harry, did you get drunk last night?" he asks.

He should have showered. Harry bites his lip. "You didn't come home last night; I think that was as good as reason to down a bottle of Firewhiskey as any these days!" he says sharply. "And anyway, don't make this about me, I was just fine, sitting here, worrying to death about you, calling your mum and your brothers and Gin, I even tried Luna! Where were you?"

Ron looks away. "Hogwarts," he mumbles. He looks incredibly guilty.

"God, Ron." Harry rubs his face. "Why didn't you say something... I would have come with you, I would have..."

"Damnit, Harry, you don't have to always come with me anywhere I go. I'm not a little kid, you know? I don't need you to take care of me. If I want to go visit her, I'll well do it on my own, in my own time..."

Harry stares at him, slightly open-mouthed, embarrassed, lost for words. He didn't... he didn't think he was being clingy. He was just taking care of Ron! It was... Ron never said anything! He never pushed Harry away, he just let him...

It hurt, to have it thrown into his face now. "I would have backed off, you know," he finally says, softly, and turns away. "Before. If you'd said something. I guess that puts me in all my place all right." His stomach churns, feels like he's swallowed something sharp that's stuck in his guts.

"Harry..." Ron grabs for him, but Harry eludes the touch and stomps to his room, pulling the door shut behind himself.

He didn't think Ron had noticed. He didn't realize Ron minded the proximity he'd installed between the two of them. He didn't really believe Ron noticed anything anymore, the more he got lost in his own thoughts. But apparently, Ron isn't as oblivious to the world as he's made people around him believe.

Hogwarts. Harry sighs and slides down the door, sits down on the floor and leans his head back against the wood. He didn't know Ron goes there still.

 

III

 

He picks up a pair of jeans and a shirt out of his closet, from a neatly folded stack of clothes, when about ten minutes have passed and Ron hasn't come knocking on his door. He gets underwear, a new towel out of another closet, and walks out, ready to face Ron's suffering expression. Except when he opens the door and peaks out, Ron is nowhere to be seen. The door to Ron's room is firmly shut, and it seems to glare at him.

Harry snorts. Right. Ron is the one with the right to be angry. Sure. He rolls his eyes, walks into the bathroom, and steps beneath the shower after undressing. His naked skin is covered with goose bumps, but he doesn't care about the cool air washing over him. At least, it clears his head.

The water is a nice change, washes off the sweat from being up all night, drinking, the feeling of stupidity and the concern he still feels about Ron, even though he came back safely.

Thinking about Ron in the shower isn't such a good idea, however, so he quickly gets out before he can develop a bigger problem than he needs and dries off. His hair is wet and glued to his forehead, and he grabs his glasses off the litte counter by the mirror. It's steamed up and doesn't comment on any incriminating details it might have witnessed, just whistles in its deep, male voice, as it always does when he climbs out of the shower, towel around his waist.

It figures that they'd end up with a gay mirror of all things. Harry rolls his eyes at it, wonders shortly if Ron has to deal with the harrassment too, and discards the thought of Ron naked bar a towel as quickly as it snapped into his mind. He's angry with Ron. Lusting after him isn't the best way to stay angry.

"Have a nice day, darling," the mirror says, when he opens the door to leave. He's dressed, and the mirror is right... he should have a nice day. Except Ron's still in his room, and the door is still shut. This time, Harry can't quite tell whether it's telling him to stay away or come in. He doesn't ask.

 

III

 

They walk on eggshells around each other for a few days. Harry can hardly bear it, the way Ron doesn't eat, practically flaunts that fact in Harry's face whenever Harry's having breakfast, or dinner. He doesn't seem to sleep so well either, since Harry's decided to stay in his own room at night.

Not that Harry sleeps well, for that matter, but he deals. He always has. He's not... dependant on Ron, he isn't. He doesn't need Ron to survive. But, it is pretty clear, Ron does need Harry to survive; his cheeks hollow, he gets even thinner and on the third day, Harry mentions that the bags under his eyes look like he's been run over by a horde of hippogriffs.

"Don't care," Ron shrugs, takes his files off the counter in the kitchen and vanishes through the fireplace to work.

Harry glares at the peace offering he put on the other side of the table himself a few minutes ago, the plate with omelett he's served up for Ron. He stands up, grabs the plate and throws it at the wall; he enjoys hearing it shatter.

After that, he feels a little better.

 

III

 

He comes home late. He hates himself just a little for this, for what he does, sometimes, just once in two or three months, fucking some stranger he picks up in a muggle club or bar; he's not picky. But they all have red hair and blue eyes.

He tried, he really tried not to, but the frustration eats him up inside, makes him testy and difficult and... jealous. Of everything and everyone. He can't live with himself when he's like that, and he doesn't want Ron to have to suffer for it, just because he refuses to get laid out of some twisted sense of... belonging.

Ron is sitting at the kitching table, and he looks up when Harry floos in. His eyes are a little glazed over, like he's been listening to boring stories all night; he probably has, except the stories would only be boring to him. Ginny's sitting next to him, keeping him on his seat with a hand on his elbow and a thunderous expression on her face.

In some respects, she is a lot like her mother.

"Hey, Harry," Ginny greets him icily.

"Ginny..." he says weakly. There's not a hair in the wrong place on him, he knows, nobody could realize what he's been up to, but he still feels the same crushing wave of guilt he gets every time he comes home and gets caught.

"Remember that little deal we made, a few months back? About you getting your head out of your ass?"

"Yeah." His voice sounds hoarse.

"Why do I get the feeling you're still stalling?"

Ron's eyes are attentive again, like the boring part is finally over and he can concentrate now, on them. His gaze rests on Harry, for just a moment, a greeting of kind... then flickers over to Ginny. "What deal?"

"That he'd keep you fed, you moron!" Ginny snaps. "Not that it's his fault that you're starving to death, he's not your bloody maid, you know. Eat!" She shoves at the piece of cake that's been hovering before his mouth since Harry came in. It stuffs right as Ron opens his mouth to protest, and he has to chew. Ginny looks pleased with herself.

"Now, then," she says. "It's late enough. Be glad I dropped by, idiot! It was nice catching up." She swaps Ron over the back of the head, gets up from her seat and walks towards the exit.

"Where -?" Harry asks.

"I'm gonna step out and apparate from the street over to my apartment. The floo is crowded Fridays, and who knows what creeps are lurking around, waiting to pull you out."

Harry looks at Ron, who's chewing on the cake Ginny brought over - there is more on the counter, he sees when he gazes around - then back at Ginny. She's scowling at him to follow her.

"Do you want me to accompany you outside?"

"That would be nice." She's curteous, most pleasant, like nothing's wrong, except her eyes are fiery.

They stop outside the building, and Ginny breathes in the summer air. It's warm, the nights haven't been cold for weeks.

"He told me," she says, not hesitating a second, not beating around the bush.

"Told you what?" Harry tries to play dumb. Maybe it's something else. Maybe...

"That he went to visit the graves at Hogwarts that one night, and that you got piss drunk and then you had a fight with him." She takes a step closer to him, grabs his shirt and looks up, glares. "Harry, you have to stop it. You have to stop avoiding the issue and force him to look at it. Because he's ready!"

"He isn't..." Harry replies, softly, without any real strenght behind the words.

"He went to bloody say good-bye to her that night, you ass," she spits. "Why are guys all so freaking blind when it comes to stuff like this? Goddamnit, Harry, someone needs to shake some sense into the two of you, you're acting like twelve years old kids with super secret crushes! Just talk to him!"

"What if I'm not ready?" Harry protested. "What -"

"Oh, don't even start." Ginny snorts, punches his arm. "You've been ready the moment you saw his dirt-smudged nose on that train, Hermione told me all about how taken you were with him."

Harry flushes. "I can't tell him that!"

"Look." Ginny lets go of him, her voice softens. "If you don't want to be outright, I can understand. Ask him about Hogwarts, then. Just... just ask him what he went there for, okay? Let it unravel from there. He'll help you out, I know he will. He's not that much of a prat."

"Tonight?" Harry bites his lip.

"Tonight!" Ginny nods, serious. "He needs you, you know. Right now, he needs a bit of assurance, a bit of stability. And he needs to bloody eat, all right? So feed him. Force-feed him, if you have to. There is enough cake to last a few days!"

Harry smiles. "Thanks." He doesn't mean the cake.

"You are quite welcome. And now, I'll -"

"Hey, how's Dom?" It's not like he doesn't ask at least once a week, every time he visits her, but he doesn't want to miss out on any news.

Ginny smiles. "He took off a few days ago, actually. Said he needed off for a while. It's... well, it's his baby daughter's birthday this week, so I guess I understand."

"I'm sorry." He feels embarrassed heat rise to his cheeks. "Is there anything I can do?"

"No. It's fine. He'll come back in a week or so. He stayed the whole night, last Friday. It's progress. Slow, but steady. Look, I gotta get going now. Good luck." Her brown eyes are confident, confident in him, that he can do this, that he can be this person, this unafraid, strong enough person.

She's gone in a blink.

 

III

 

It turns out he doesn't need to start. Ron's sitting by the window when he comes back, and even though Harry knows their apartment is fairly high up, he also knows really well how good sound travels around these parts. And the window is half-open.

"You never even asked," Ron says, not looking at him. "You never even asked, why I went there. You just... you've just assumed. I dunno what. I don't really care either."

"Ron. It's Hermione's grave. What is there to assume? We were up there all the time, after she... and then you didn't want to go anymore, and then we didn't, and then, you turn up here, after spending the whole night over there and you didn't even... you didn't even tell me where you went!"

"I wanted to be alone, okay? Is that so hard to understand? I had to think!"

"All you ever do anymore is think!" Harry almost yells. "You're trapped in that little bubble of yours, where all you do is sit around and guilt and, I don't know, wish for stuff to be different, for her to still be alive... God, Ron, you know as well as I do that I would have gladly given my life to protect hers..."

That makes Ron get up faster than a gunshot would have. "Don't you dare say that!" he hissed. "Don't you dare make her sacrifice less than it is, because you don't know anything about it!"

"Because you didn't tell me!" Harry bellows. "Nobody told me anything, and then she went and suddenly, she was dead, and I killed Voldemort, but she was still dead and nobody told me why!"

"She didn't tell you." Ron gives a dry chuckle, like sandpaper rubbing against smooth skin. "She told me, but not you? I don't... why?"

Harry blinks. "What?" he asks, because it's all he still has the energy for. He can't... he doesn't know what else to say.

"It was a spell she created," Ron explains, tonelessly. "It was supposed to bind his soul to the body he was in, since it wasn't really bound; that was how he escaped death the first time, when your mum's protection backfired his charm. He managed to slip out before it hit his body. But for it to work, it needed the energy of a single death."

"And she decided to do it herself?" Harry closes his eyes.

"You know what she said to me, the evening before you destroyed him and she died?" Ron laughs. "She said she was okay with leaving, that she had it all figured out.  
"She said we would survive if we just managed to make it, the two of us. You know what she said? She fucking said, and she was laughing, 'You know, I'll be looking down on you guys, and I'll be laughing my ass off watching Harry struggle to take care of your lazy arse!'"

Harry can't watch the desolate expression on Ron's face. He can't. It hurts, it really hurts, physically. Hermione meant it as a joke, she'd been teasing, but Ron didn't understand it that way. Harry takes a quick step towards him, then another one, and then he is holding Ron in his arms, squeezing the air out of him, running circles over his back with his right hand.

"You knew she was going to do that, didn't you?" he whispers. "God, Ron."

"She made me promise not to tell anyone."

"Is... why are you telling me now?"

"She said I could, but first, I had to let her go." There is a pause, then a sharp intake of breath.

"Look, Harry," Ron finally moves on, hastily. "I'm so sorry... I've been going to visit her all this time, almost daily; I didn't work all these hours, just some of it, and on Sundays, I was always at the graves all day, I lied. I wasn't working. I mean... I... you didn't notice, but she was bound to Hogwarts until a few days ago. You know, how ghosts are bound to earth by people who can't let go, sometimes? I know it's not all right, I know that, but she wasn't mad, she was just... there...!  
"But then, she asked me to let her go, a few weeks ago, and I... I'm so sorry for spending the night, I didn't mean to, but I needed to... we... we had to say goodbye...!"

He sounds so hurt that Harry just pulls him in tighter, holds him until he's calmed down. He can't quite wrap his head around it, Ron keeping all this from him, Ron being so... distant, all this time, with Hermione, lying to him about where he is, what he's doing.

All this time, Ron was together with her, Harry realizes, like a knife to his heart, and suddenly, he feels very, very lonely.

But Ron needs him, so he stays and waits and gives Ron all the time he needs.

 

III

 

Still, Harry hesitates, for a moment, just for a split second, before the bed, when really, he's supposed to get in, no questions asked. It's not like they haven't done this a million times before, but...

Ron notices. Immediately. He stops in mid-motion, the covers only half-up his body, and he looks over to Harry, inquiringly, a big, wondrous question mark in his eyes.

"I..." Harry feels the blush rise into his cheeks. "I just..."

"Is this about before?" Ron whispers. "About what Ginny said?"

This time, Harry doesn't play dumb. "You heard all of it, huh?" he asks, and the heat in his cheeks intensifies.

"Yeah..." Ron leans over and takes his hand, bravely, like there's nothing in the movement, nothing brave, nothing outstanding, like it's just what they do. "Look, it's okay. I... I think she was right. I think I'm ready now."

Harry kneels on the bed, still on top of the covers. "But Hermione..." he says, and she's always there, between them, and he thinks she may always remain, and he doesn't know what to think of that, he doesn't know what to feel.

"Hermione's gone on," Ron reminds him. His eyes are sad, lose focus for a moment, like always when he thinks of her. Then he's back, a switch, with Harry again. "I needed this year with her, you know? To work things out. I'm sorry it took me so long."

"Are you sure you're not still in love with her?" It hurts so much to ask, but Harry, afraid to, does so anyway. He needs to know. Now. If it's ever going to be enough, if this, whatever they're trying to do here, has the slightest chance.

Ron chuckles. "You know," he says. "It's funny. I never... if you'd have asked me this question a year ago, the moment she died, I would have said yes, and I would have been stuck, believing it. It took me over a year with her ghost to figure out that I never was."

Harry looks at him, tries to gauge the truth, a truth he doesn't quite believe to be true, but if Ron does... if only Ron does... but he can't tell, and Ron isn't giving, he's just... looking at Harry, inviting him.

It's been a long year. He's tired. He tells himself that is the reason he doesn't protest anymore after that, the reason why he falls into the bed, and presses close to the oh so familiar body, the warmth he's been experiencing for so long now that he always, always longs to go back to it, wherever he is.

"She said to tell you that you're a pudding head for putting up with me for this long and not asking for anything in return," Ron mumbles against his neck. "Oh, and she loves you. A lot."

Harry closes his eyes, feels the tears sting at the corners, and puts his forehead to Ron's. Their heartbeats are close together in speed, constantly slowing, and he curls his fingers around Ron's before he falls asleep.

 

III

 

It's past seven in the morning, and he doesn't want to get up. He doesn't want to slip into the routine of making breakfast, getting out of here before Ron can really think about it... he wants Ron's arms to stay around him for at least a few more hours.

He feels Ron stir, feels him wake up, slowly but surely, feels his eyes flutter open; he doesn't need to look to know Ron's awake, still sleepy, but definitely awake.

"You feel... different."

The words are slow, drawn out, like a long, endless intake of breath. Harry blinks, turns a little to come face-to-face with Ron. Ron's eyes are little slits, but they're sparkling happily.

"I do?" Harry asks, gently.

"You want to kiss me."

"I -" he suppresses the intiatial reaction to protest. "I do," he admits.

"So do," Ron smiles.

It's like he's been waiting for permission for forever. And still, it's like the most natural thing in the world to close the tiny gap between them and kiss Ron's lips.


End file.
